DISCLAIMER: I use a lot of profanity. I prefer blunt language. I find humor in the disgusting. Deal.

All writings property of Bits of Violet. All rights reserved. The author can be emailed at thevibratordiaries@yahoo.com. Please note that all emails sent to this address become the property of the author and can be used in future blogs. All names and email addresses will be removed to protect privacy.

3.31.2011

I have been sitting here thinking about random objects my family has owned. In the seven years that C and I have been together, many of our personal possessions have suffered. Between us, the kids, and the dogs ... well, it’s a list worth blogging about:

3.27.2011

This isn’t about a vibrator, but its cousin, a dildo. One night I was watching a television program that was discussing homemade, personalized dildos. Apparently you could purchase a kit and make a copy of your partner’s penis. I was instantly intrigued, and, a short while later, I received a do-it-yourself Pecker Pail in the mail from my dearest C.

I was really excited about making a copy of my husband’s baby maker. It was perfect timing, since he was about to leave for a long time for work. He may have been going away, but he would be leaving Little C behind ... well ... Little C’s evil twin.

The Pecker Pail came with detailed instructions. The person supplying the goods had to get it hard, stick it in this tube of plaster, and keep it hard for ten minutes. No big deal, right? Especially considering that C had a more than willing female that was happy to assist. For some reason, however, C felt this was something he needed to do on his own. He apparently felt less than masculine with his hard pole stuck in a bunch of white gunk. I had to leave him to his own devices, which consisted of him getting it hard, sticking it to the plaster, and watching some girl-on-girl cheerleader porn while sitting on the can.

It probably didn’t help that every few minutes I would knock on the door and ask him how things were going. He would confirm that things were fine, while I was impatiently waiting on the other side of the door desperate to see the results. Exactly ten minutes later, he presented me with a tube full of hardened plaster, complete with a penis shaped hole inside.

The next part of the process required filling the plaster mold with some sort of goo that would turn into a flesh-colored, synthetic penis. After filling up the tube-mold with the goo, I was disappointed to learn that it had to sit over night in order to set.

I slept restlessly that night, with dreams of dildos dancing in my head. I was the first to wake up that morning, and I quickly found the tube-mold-dildo on the bar of our kitchen. In no time flat I had the plaster cracked to reveal my prize ...

... my prize was a small, crooked dick with ginormous balls. It looked like a small question mark squashed between two scoops of ice cream. It was the funniest thing that I have ever seen in my whole entire life. Of course, I immediately woke up C to show him his work from the night before.

V: Wakey, wakey, eggs, and bakey! C: Sleeping. Shhh. V: I’ve got your cock in my hand...
C: No you don’t. Tease. V: The one you made me last night.
C: [perks up a bit] How did it turn out?
V: Well ... [shoves tiny, crooked dildo in his face]
C: What the??? That doesn’t look like my dick!
V: I know! But its still cute. I love it!
C: [rolls over and goes back to sleep]

Yes, its true the dildo that C attempted to make for me was greatly lacking in what my husband usually supplied me with. Apparently, it is very hard to keep one’s cock hard while it is stuck in cold plaster without any stimulation. I still applauded him for the effort. Little C promptly took a priority spot in my box of adult goodies.

It wasn’t until quite a bit of time had passed that I remembered that I had Little C stored away for a rainy day. C had long since left for his work duties, and I had been sitting at home alone for several months. When Little C popped into my mind, I could not wait to put him to good use.

For some reason, I decided that privacy was more important than usual for this adventure. So important that the privacy of my bedroom wouldn’t even suffice. Instead, I opted for the office/guest room, which no one ever uses or goes into. I locked the door, made myself at home on the day bed, got down to business with Little C, stuck Little C into the nearest desk drawer, took a shower, and hit the sack. Overall, a very pleasant night.

Flash forward two days later. I am sitting at home, working on the computer. I was caught up in my own business while my oldest son, G, played around the house. I was so absorbed, I barely recollect G coming to ask me a question:

Fuck me. I turned around, looked behind me, and, sure enough, there is my six-year-old son with crooked, gigantic-balled dildo in his hand.

I snatched it out of his hands as quickly as possible, executed a sweet slide into my bedroom, and had that puppy locked up faster than you can shake down a leprechaun. It was the resulting damage that took much longer to deal with.

G: Was that a penis?
V: No, of course not.
G: Well, what was it?
V: [thinking fast] A paperweight.
G: What’s a paperweight?
V: Jeez! It holds down paper!
G: Why does a paperweight look like a penis?
V: It doesn’t! Its only a paperweight.
G: B-b-but!
V: Do you think Santa would like to know that you are talking so much about penises!?

A quick save that thankfully worked. G was entirely too afraid of Santa learning about any penis conversations to question me further. I could not, however, resist immediately sending a text message to one of my BFFs, T, that read: “G just asked me why a fake cock was in my office.”

3.26.2011

I have been reading romance novels for almost twenty years. I read an average of four books a week. Four books multiplied by fifty-two weeks in a year ... that’s more than 200 books a year. I’m estimating that I have read about 4,000 books over the course of my life, and the majority of those have been romance novels.

Feeling an expert on the subject of romance novels, sex, and relationships, I feel that I should share some of my insight with you. Feel honored, dear readers, because I have even done a bit of research for you. Let’s look at some quick statistics:

58 million women read at least one romance novel in 2008.

29 percent of Americans over age 13 read at least one romance novel in 2008.

The average reader is female, aged 31-49, and is currently in a romantic relationship.

I could not find any information on the number of romance novels the average women reads per year, but a healthy guess would be around twenty-five per year. That would be around two books a month, multiplied by twelve months. I really feel like this is on the low-end, but we will use this number for the duration of this blog post. Even this small number will be enough to prove my point. Now let’s look at the average content of a romance novel:

One slim, yet curvy, virgin.

One sexy man-whore.

Two or more sex scenes.

Happily-ever-afters in the form of an engagement, a marriage, a baby, or any combination of the three.

Hmm ... now this is starting to get interesting. So, based on the information that I have given you so far, the average women is exposed to twenty-five skinny virgins, twenty-five sexy man-sluts, fifty sex scenes, and fifty happily-ever-afters. Many women, after being exposed to just one year of reading romance novels, might begin to think of this equation in their head:

Body Type: All the men are over six feet tall, broad, muscular, and have washboard abs. They also have a startling color of eyes (sky blue and storm gray are the most common), along with either black or blonde hair.

Finances: They’re rich. Filthy rich. Always, always rich.

Sexuality: All men portrayed in romance novels are man-whores who have no desire to find love. They have plenty of sex with many women, and their sexual abilities are known far and wide for being mind-shattering. All the men have extremely large cocks and huge balls.

Interests: All the men only participate in manly activities like riding horses, hunting, doing manual labor, drinking blood, and saving the world. The men in romance novels never watch sports, sit in the garage, or fart. The primary interest of these men, however, is to stay single forever ... that is until they meet the skinny virgin. After that, they suddenly cannot think of other women. They sometimes even go without sex for months or years, because they only want sex with the skinny virgin. The majority of the men feel that once they have enough sex with the skinny virgin they will be able to continue with their lives, but, as always, a declaration of love towards the end of the novel seals their fate. The man-whore then becomes a reformed man of honor.

So now the female readers are left with an even bigger problem if they want to achieve their happily-ever-after. They must find a six foot tall, muscular, southern Werewolf, with blue/gray eyes, black/blonde hair, and a huge dick, who also happens to love manual labor, drinks blood, and is filthy rich.

It is obvious that many women have found this man of their dreams, or someone who at least closely resembles it. Worse case scenario, the woman can always “change” him, right? Every man can and will become like those in romance novels, because no other man exists in romance novels. Right? I digress.

A relationship pursues, but then women have an even bigger problem to deal with. We have already established that romance novels have an average of two sex scenes, and women are exposed to about fifty of these scenes per year. These scenes are very typical, and I can easily describe the two sex scenes found in every romance novel ever written:

Scene One: The skinny virgin has decided to lose her virginity. The man is often aware that he is dealing with a virgin and acts accordingly. An extremely long bout of foreplay follows as he “prepares” her. Once penetration occurs, there is only a sharp twinge of pain, or no pain at all, followed by intense pleasure. All virgins experience intense orgasms and the man experiences the best orgasm of his life. After the mind-shattering sex, the man goes on to clean up his deflowered virgin by wiping her down with warm cloths or giving her a bath. Many times this first sex scene is followed by a smaller scene, in which the man refuses to have sex with the woman again because of her recent loss of virginity. The man is so in lust he gives her a head job, while his tackle remains painfully swollen. He does not feel the need to have an orgasm, because her pleasure is his own.

Scene Two: This scene typically happens after the hero and heroine have parted ways, experienced severe trauma, or have had a major fight, only to come together again because they cannot stand to be apart. The sex is hot, intense, and always lasts all night. Once is never enough, and the couple usually has sex five or more times over the course of the night. The woman experiences multiple, intense orgasms.

Wow ... okay ... let’s just be honest here. Romance novels have fucked over men worldwide with this. While your wife or girlfriend is sitting on the recliner reading what you assume to be an innocent novel, she is really comparing your sexual prowess to that of a fictional sexual-super-hero. So now women are thinking in these terms:

Okay ... now this is where I step in. Women need to fucking get real. I’ve been around the block a time (or two), and I can tell you that the shit in romance novels needs to stay in romance novels. Women need to look at romance novels for what they REALLY are. Porn. It’s fucking porn. Don’t get all prudish on me, try to deny it, and cover it up with the word “romance.” That’s bullshit. Women get off on reading this stuff. Interestingly enough:

70 percent of men ADMITTED they watch pornography films. One study, researching men in their 20s, stated that 100 percent watched porn. I think it is easy to conclude that there are two types of men: those who watch porn and those who lie about watching porn.

80 percent of women do not “allow” their husbands or boyfriends to watch pornography.

The majority of those women read romance novels.

Hypocritical bitches. What is the difference between getting hawt and taking a solo trip down south and your man doing the same while watching some random naked chick? Guess what? You’re not going knock boots with a muscular Vampire sex machine, and he isn’t going to bang Bree Olson. It’s just fantasy. That’s all it’s ever going to be.

Nevertheless:

50 percent of first marriages end in divorce.

67 percent of second marriages end in divorce.

Many women cite their partners watching pornography as being the reason why their marriages ended. I wonder how many of those women read romance novels? I wonder how many of those women think that they will find their ideal Scottish Fairy if they just look a little harder, magically regain their virginity, and lose a bit of weight? Get real.

I bet my last nickel that romance novels have done their part to increase divorce rates. That also sounds like a fantastic topic for a dissertation.